


Show me a hero

by rachelindeed



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: A BSG fusion with Batman, But Saul Tigh is Alfred so you should read it just for that, Gen, Lee and Bill get along much better if you put them in costumes, No Batman characters sorry only BSG, Saul is a terrible terrible butler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:11:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/pseuds/rachelindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lee found the Batcave at the age of ten.  It came as quite a relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show me a hero

_"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy." (F. Scott Fitzgerald)_

Lee found the Batcave at the age of ten. 

It came as quite a relief.

The chill marble floors and blank window-walls of Wayne Manor had still been new to him in those days. He’d got lost more than once between his room and the dining hall, every step wafting up dust. 

The place hadn’t been properly cleaned in a decade; Bill’s butler, Saul Pennyworth, had no discernable housekeeping skills. When he wasn’t tucked away with his bottle in the back of the pantry, though, he could make a mean pile of pancakes. Lee was learning to love him for that, to look forward to his muted cussing over the stove every morning. He would chuck Lee’s backpack at him at 7:15, growl, “Get your ass in gear, Adama,” and chauffeur him to school in a sleek limousine that smelled strongly of old cigarettes. When Lee got home in the afternoons there were usually cookies hidden for him in some stray tin or other, and if they were freshly baked Saul never admitted it. “Pick up your own crap, Adama,” he would bark in passing, staring balefully at Lee’s dishes. Lee lit up under his attention but tried hard not to show it. 

There was a warmth in Saul that was missing from this house and its owner. 

Bill Wayne was very rich and very difficult to know. He greeted his new ward politely every morning, read the paper with crisp attention and a face that gave nothing away, and then vanished until evening. When he came home he spoke to Lee like a friendly stranger, never deviating from the routine check-ins of dinner, homework, bedtime. After ten o’clock, he vanished without a trace. Lee had lived in his house for two months and learned absolutely nothing about him.

That was strange, because the first time they’d met, Lee’d felt nothing but instant, unspeakable connection. Lee had been crying that night, crouched by the rough wooden platform that rose to a broken trapeze. He hadn’t been able to stop staring at the grisly heap of his baby brother on the ground. This strange, silent man had come to him then, had reached for him roughly and pulled him close without a word. Bill’s face had been still but his eyes had been wet, as though Lee’s tragedy were his own.

The Flying Adamas had been the star act of the circus since before Lee was born; an Adama wasn’t an Adama until he mastered the heights of the center ring. His parents made their money working without a net, pushing the envelope of human aerodynamics until they managed to roll the hard six, their trademark miracle of aerial gymnastics. No one else in the world had ever managed more than five rotations, and as word spread the nightly crowds thickened and the money came pouring in, especially once the Adamas added their oldest son to the act. Lee had reveled in the rush of the wind, the dry talcum powder creased into his palms, the weightlessness of the toss and the hard snap of his mother’s wrists reaching out for the catch. He had a gift for the air, a grace and surety that kept the lines of his body clean and the timing of every spin perfect. 

Zak had been so young, too young to perform. But he’d wanted a taste of the crowd’s mad applause and spent a week throwing tantrums on the sidelines, begging for the chance to go up. That night their parents had finally agreed to let him fly in Lee’s place, to try out a few simple passes. It turned Lee sick to think of it.

Bill Wayne had been sitting in the audience with a bucket of popcorn and a young supermodel competing for space in his lap when the Flying Adamas had plunged to their deaths. Their trapeze lines had been lightly cut, the ropes frayed enough to part under the weight and momentum of the aerialists’ stunts. The subsequent police investigation turned up few surprises; it all boiled down to dirty, senseless greed. Lee’s parents had made a lot of money and refused to turn any over to the first hooligan who tried to shake them down. Denied his ‘protection’ kick-back, the thug had sabotaged their act. A senseless murder for a handful of cash, but dead was dead and orphan was orphan. Motives hardly mattered once the results were in; Lee’s parents and brother were gone.

Bill had showed up at social services a week later, and before the day was out his cadre of lawyers and abundance of cash had cut through the red tape; Lee was on his way home to Wayne Mansion. The long car ride was hazy in Lee’s mind, but he remembered asking this strange, rumbling man why he wanted to take charge of a random carnie kid. Bill had spoken low and private, staring straight ahead into the rain on the windshield. As Lee’d listened, only a few images had managed to sink in: a dark alley, a gun, a string of pearls – an indefinable sense of kinship, of shared suffering. It was weeks later that Lee’d looked up the details of the old Wayne homicides and found photos of Bill at just his age, face already curiously blank; orphaned. Bill’s father, Joseph, had been a defense lawyer for the worst of the Gotham mob, but that had made no difference to the low-life mugger who’d shot him and his wife for a bit of jewelry. Bill had watched it happen, as powerless to intervene as Lee had been.

They’d both had their families stolen from them right before their eyes; in Bill’s mind, that made them the same. Lee was a little worried about what would happen when he realized how wrong he was.

Trauma wasn’t enough to build a real bridge between two people, especially people as different as Bill and Lee. How could Bill ever understand all the intangible things Lee was missing? The thrill of the air, the heady mastery of his own body, the relief of vanishing into a costume? How would Bill react if he knew how blindly Lee craved the shock of adrenalin and performance, as if it might offer escape from the horrible anger that beat so hard under his skin? By ordinary people’s standards, Lee had been raised a freak, and his personal tragedy had only added rage to an already volatile mixture. He knew there was only so long he could pretend to be normal, to be healing, to be young. Eventually he would lash out and Bill’s kindness and courtesy and money would withdraw as suddenly as they’d appeared. It was only a matter of time.

Then, one night in late October, Lee had gotten lost in the maze of empty rooms in the east wing. One accidental trapdoor and five rickety staircases later, he found himself standing at the lip of a monstrous subterranean cavern, filled with the hum of giant computer generators and the delicate rustle of bats overhead. There was a suit of body armor in a glass storage case, and its insignia had grown familiar to every Gotham schoolboy. Lee had stared, transfixed, literally unable to believe his luck.

When Bill drove the Batmobile back through its secret entrance in the pre-dawn hours, Lee was waiting.

“I understand,” Lee told him, staring up into the shadows of his cowl. “I want to help.”

“I know you do,” Batman answered, mouth serious and straight. “I know you do.”


End file.
